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It started as a normal heist. Supplies were obtained at the local Home Hardware, and Billy Joe lent her rattling hippie van for a getaway car. Ryan had even sprung for balaclavas like home invaders wore in movies.

But upon exiting their van in the dark alleyway where they'd parked, trouble caught them unawares. All of them felt it as they crossed some invisible threshold, as they set foot on a patch of concrete that looked like any other and yet was, emphatically, not.

Said pavement was littered with large shards of glass, and Ryan had a moment to ponder where all the glass had come from before a force lifted him like a doll and fell him backwards, upwards, through the gaping Cheshire grin of a shattered skyscraper window twenty storeys up. Ryan hit first, then David; Tim brought up the rear, tugged about like a naughty toddler by his waistband and chased by the glass shards they'd seen below. The glass sealed the hole that had been made, and seconds later it was as if the trio had always been there, casual-like, finishing Balaclava-casual Friday at the office.

That's when the door to the room they were in swung open, and the night took a turn for the weird.